


The Baskerville Project

by Mertiya



Series: A Study Into Darkness [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, F/M, Human Experimentation, M/M, Mind Games, Mind-altering drugs, Sherlock doesn't do very well without John, Sherlock will do anything for John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’ve been to several secret government laboratories,” Sherlock says, his eyes widening slightly with piqued interest.  “And you expected me to realize it, so you don’t actually want to discuss what you’re going to ask of me.  You are not acting entirely on your own initiative; in fact, if you are not being threatened, you are at least under a certain amount of duress.”  He raises an eyebrow again.  “I should not have thought you were the type to be caught in a melodramatic use-your-brother-or-kill-him situation, so it’s more than that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Baskerville Project

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first off, can I just say, oh my god, I had no idea that Pro Patria would be so popular so THANK YOU to everyone who read it and enjoyed it! I'm super flattered! I had a few people ask me for the backstory, so, well, this is it! There may be one other installment (though I never want to promise). Anyways, I hope you like this story too!

At first, it seems laughable.  This is a civilized age, after all.  War may not be completely eliminated, but surely humanity could not be foolish enough to devolve completely into a third world war.  John doesn’t worry about it, because he’s a soldier, and he has enough faith in the leaders of the country, perhaps.  Sherlock doesn’t worry about it because it’s irrelevant.  He doesn’t even notice that anything is happening, that the news is buzzing with international politics (except occasionally to curse over the lack of coverage of some local crime), until the day that Mycroft appears in 221B and orders Sherlock and John to come with him.

            Sherlock raises one thin eyebrow.  “No,” he says.  “I’m busy.”

            John comes in from the kitchen, gives Mycroft a nod, and fetches his newspaper.

            “This is not up for debate,” Mycroft says quietly. 

            Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “It never is.  I told you, I am _not interested_.”

            “Sherlock, I do not want to threaten you, but neither of us has much of a choice in this matter.”

            This causes Sherlock to pay slightly more attention.  There is something strange in his brother’s voice, which he supposes he ought to have noticed earlier, but he can hardly keep track of all of Mycroft’s eccentricities.  Clearly, in assuming this was a routine visit, he has made a severe tactical error.

            He looks Mycroft up and down, takes note of the dark soil clinging to his undeniably expensive trousers, the fact that his usually impeccably-dressed brother has not changed in two days, glances over toward the newspaper John is holding.

            “War,” he says.  “You’re declaring war.”

            John puts down the newspaper and looks back and forth between the two brothers:  Mycroft crumpled, anxious, strained; Sherlock merely curious.

            “Much as I appreciate your faith that only I have control over the British government,” Mycroft says snidely, “in this case, I am afraid you overestimate my influence.  I would have preferred not to be sucked into the coming conflict at all, and I would certainly have preferred not to be asking my brother to lend me his aid in our current—predicament.”

            “You’ve been to several secret government laboratories,” Sherlock says, his eyes widening slightly with piqued interest.  “And you expected me to realize it, so you don’t actually want to discuss what you’re going to ask of me.  You are not acting entirely on your own initiative; in fact, if you are not being threatened, you are at least under a certain amount of duress.”  He raises an eyebrow again.  “I should not have thought you were the type to be caught in a melodramatic use-your-brother-or-kill-him situation, so it’s more than that.”

            “What?” John puts in, the anxiety plain in his voice.

            “Mycroft, surely you aren’t feeling _guilty_ about using me?  You’re slipping.”

            “This isn’t the usual situation,” Mycroft says, curtly.  “You’re coming with me, Sherlock, and as a gesture of good faith, I’ll bring John as well.”

            “I don’t suppose anyone wants to tell me what’s going on?” John says, anxiety and anger sharp in his voice.

            “No,” Mycroft says simply.  “Come along, both of you.”

            “I’ll explain as we travel,” Sherlock tells John.  “I’m afraid we seem to have little choice.  I am not actually certain even Mycroft could save us, should I choose not to accompany him.”

            The words make John’s mouth work peculiarly, but he gets up, his eyes sliding sideways across the room to his desk.

            “No, don’t bother bringing it,” Sherlock says in a bored tone of voice.  “They’ll only confiscate it.”

            John nods grimly and puts out a hand to Sherlock, who takes it.  They look at each other; then Sherlock rises, but he keeps John’s hand.  Mycroft watches with an impassive face and gestures at the two of them to leave the flat in front of him.  He frowns faintly and glances back as the door shuts behind them.

~

            As they exit the car, John recognizes the thin, yellow grass of Dartmoor almost immediately; he recognizes the high gates swinging shut with a clang behind them a second later, and he wonders what the purpose in driving them to a place they knew in a car with tinted windows was.  Standard protocol, probably.  The journey was tense and silent; neither John nor Sherlock stopped holding the other’s hand.

            John stretches, his limbs stiffer than the drive should have left him, his leg twinging slightly.  He looks up to see that Major Barrymore is striding across the complex toward them, flanked by two uniformed guards.  He has more grey hair than John remembers, and his grim face is turned grimmer.  He salutes Mycroft and nods to Sherlock and John.

            “Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson.  Mr. Holmes, I’ll need you to come with me.”

            “What about John?” Sherlock says, and it’s only when he says that, somehow, that John realizes they want to separate him and Sherlock.

            “I’m coming too,” he says, pleasant but firm.

            Major Barrymore’s eyes flick to him briefly, then go back to Sherlock.  “Impossible,” he says.

            “Non-negotiable,” says John.

            Mycroft clears his throat quietly from behind them, and Sherlock glances back.  “John,” says Mycroft.  “You were not originally among the seventy-three participants of this—effort—and I am afraid my own attempts to secure you a place may have backfired somewhat.”

            As John tries to translate that from Mycroft-speech into regular-person-talk, Sherlock takes him roughly by the shoulder.  “John,” he says.  “It will be all right, don’t worry.”

            “It’s not me I’m worried about, you berk,” John points out, but Sherlock isn’t listening.

            “Mycroft, do take note that this is absurdly melodramatic,” he drawls.

            “I agree,” Mycroft says, “but I suppose there are those in control of the government at the moment who feel John is their best chance of making a notoriously recalcitrant man behave.  I myself have utilized this fact on numerous occasions.”

            “Not like this,” Sherlock responds levelly, and he turns back to John, draws him close, and kisses him fiercely.  John responds in kind, because the game that Mycroft (or whoever is controlling Mycroft) is playing is becoming obvious, even to him, and he resents being used like this, but he also knows (the soldier in him is resigned) that the government doesn’t leave things up to chance, and generally it’s not wise to bank on Sherlock’s patriotism. 

            When they break the kiss, he strokes Sherlock’s cheek.  “I’ll see you later, all right?” he says, and Sherlock nods.

            “Of course,” he says, and if his voice is a little rough, John doesn’t comment.

~

            The room is sterile and white, and that ought to be comforting, because Molly spends her days in white, sterile rooms like this.  But they fetched her in the middle of the day, when she was working at St. Bart’s, men in suits who asked her to come with them (and she’s been so scared the last few weeks, reading the newspapers in the morning and then trying to forget what she’s read and spending long hours in the morgue working with the bodies who don’t talk and don’t buzz about war on the horizon).  She doesn’t know why she’s being given a physical—no one has told her what’s going on (and dammit she’s not going to let them see how scared she is), and she hates these damn skimpy little hospital gowns.

            Someone raps on the door.  “Come in!” Molly squeaks and very determinedly does not hide behind her hair.

            The woman who enters is probably in her forties, with short, straw-colored hair and a bored expression.  “Miss Hooper, isn’t it?”

            Molly gathers the shreds of her wounded dignity around her.  “Doctor Hooper, actually, I’ve an MD,” she manages.

            “Sorry,” says the woman with a slight smile that might be approaching friendly.  “I’m Kristy Stapleton.  I’m going to be taking a few blood samples, if that’s all right with you.”

            Molly nods mutely, wondering what would happen if she tried to say no, but she doesn’t quite have the courage to ask that.  Besides, she doesn’t really mind getting her blood drawn.  She prefers it to having to talk to people, if she’s going to be really honest, although that might say something more about her crippling social anxiety than about her comfort level with needles.

            Doctor Stapleton swabs her arm roughly, but with precision, the callousness of someone who does this a lot.  Molly swallows as the needle presses beneath her skin, but she doesn’t look away.  She winces, watching as Doctor Stapleton changes the vial several times.  It’s a lot of blood, and she feels a little faint by the time it’s over.

            After the needle is taken out, Doctor Stapleton begins a thorough physical examination, which Molly thinks is pretty unnecessary, since she had a check-up just under a month ago, and she’s fairly certain they must have access to it.  It takes her the entire time to work up the courage, but just as Doctor Stapleton tells her she can get dressed and come outside, she manages to say, all run together in one breath, “Um, could you please tell me what I’m doing here?”

            Doctor Stapleton pauses at the door.  “They’ll be explaining it in a minute,” she says, with a shrug.  Her eyes go up and down Molly, in a way Molly doesn’t quite like, and then she’s gone.  Molly pulls her knees up to her chest for a minute before she can make herself get dressed, favoring the arm she had blood drawn from.

~

            Greg Lestrade doesn’t know what he’s doing here.  He was led out of his office by a pair of dark-uniformed men, in front of Anderson’s and Donovan’s gawping faces, and packed into a car with tinted windows before being brought to wherever he is.  He’s furious; he keeps asking questions, which are ignored by everyone around him.  He’s also trying to pretend he doesn’t already know that this has to do with the fact that there is almost certainly going to be another world war, and the knowledge of what nations have done before to survive world wars sends cold chills down his spine.

            He’s still furious, though, and that protects him from the fear.  He’s been poked and prodded, had vast amounts of blood drawn, an extremely complete physical examination, and now, feeling tired and worn, he’s being sent into a spotless white conference room, with rows of the kind of seats that look perfectly comfortable, but that he knows from experience will have his back screaming at him inside of five minutes.

            He scans rapidly across the people already there; most of them are younger than he is, probably in their early- to mid-twenties.  Most of them, too, have the solid, confident look of active soldiers.  There are, in fact, only three exceptions.

            John Watson is leaning in the corner, obviously just as quietly angry as Greg himself, and he is rubbing the back of a slightly tearful, red-haired woman whom it takes Greg a moment to realize is Mrs. Hudson, John and Sherlock’s landlady. He’s been to enough Christmas parties (and drug busts) at Sherlock’s flat to recognize her.  The third exception is sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest on one of the faux-comfortable chairs.  She and John probably haven’t seen each other yet, and no wonder, because Molly Hooper is trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

            Greg waves to John, who gives him a nod, then heads over to Molly and gestures to the doctor, whose face opens, turns sharp, and then sags slightly.  Greg is getting the sick feeling that he knows the reason why the four of them are here, and his name is Sherlock Holmes. 

            He sits next to Molly and puts a hand on her shoulder.  “Molly Hooper,” he says, and she looks up, startled, and then smiles faintly. 

            “Greg,” she says, looking pleased.  “I didn’t expect to see you.  Do you know what we’re doing here?”

            He shakes his head.  “No, but it’s apparently a Christmas party reunion,” he says, trying to make it light, but when Molly looks up and sees John and Mrs. Hudson, her face clouds.

            “Is this about Sherlock?” she asks.

            “Isn’t everything?” Greg says, and he leans back carelessly and puts his feet up on the seat in front of him.  Several of the more serious-looking younger men and women look scandalized, and he grins insouciantly and waves.

            “Mind if we sit here?” John asks, and Molly smiles automatically and nods.  John and Mrs. Hudson take seats beside her, but before they have a chance to do more than look at each other awkwardly, the door opens to admit a uniformed man, two guards, and a Sherlock who is a shade paler even than usual.  They argue for a minute, Sherlock sneers, and then he shoulders the guards out of the way; they stand aside and let him take the seat beside John.  Mrs. Hudson slides aside to give him room and pats his arm.  Greg gawps for a moment and then looks self-consciously to the side; the look Sherlock has on his face as he bends over John is utterly naked, and if they were at Yard—Greg does a quick mental calculation—Parker would be coming into quite a bit of money right now. 

            Molly’s mouth is open, and she’s staring.  She catches his look, blushes red, and then giggles.

            The man in uniform makes his way to the front of the room, and a number of the soldierly-looking individuals turn their attentions toward him quickly.  Greg leans back as far as he can.

            “Good afternoon,” says the uniformed man.  “I am Major John Barrymore.  Welcome to the Baskerville Project.”

~

>>Please enter name of subject:

Hooper, Mary

>>Processing…

>>Subject identified.  Code name Hekim Çember

>>List of current medications:

Serum 57A, buspirone, nandrolone decoanate

 

>>Please enter name of subject:

Lestrade, Gregory

>>Processing…

>>Subject identified.  Code name Koruma Dikkatli

>>List of current medications:

Serum 57A

 

>>Please enter name of subject:

Hudson, Marie

>>Processing…

>>Subject identified.  Code name Valide Ev

>>List of current medications:

Serum 57A, nandrolone decoanate

 

>>Please enter name of subject:

Watson, John

>>Processing…

>>Subject identified.  Code name Khatun McGivers.

>>List of current medications:

Modified serum 57A

 

>>Please enter name of subject:

Holmes, Sherlock

>>Processing…

>>Subject identified.  Code name Khan Noonien Singh.

>>List of current medications: 

Trazodone, nandrolone decoanate, H.O.U.N.D., serum 57B…

 

~

            Sherlock’s head aches, a fierce, dull ache that reminds him of nothing so much as the disgusting grey days of cocaine withdrawal.  He knows it’s nothing like that, of course; so far nothing foreign has been inserted into his body (other than multiple needles, but all of those needles have been drawing things out, not putting them in).  He spent his first six hours here giving blood and other bodily samples and being thoroughly tested, both physically and mentally.  In the end, all that is really tested is his patience (so he tells himself, at least).

            It must be the lights.  The rooms they have him in are lit by red lighting, an obvious and puerile attempt to unsettle him, perhaps to enhance aggressive feelings.  It would be laughable if it weren’t for this damn headache.  The last hour was better; boring, but tolerable.  He ignored Major Barrymore’s patriotic drivel and concentrated instead on the warm feeling of John at his side.  John makes all of it stop, the headache, the racing thoughts—not all the time, not forever, but it’s enough.

            It has to be enough.

            He is given the first of the injections that he expected once they’re separated him from the others again.  The needle hurts a little going in; the clear liquid looks red in the red light, and his head continues to ache.

            He would be sleeping alone, if he were sleeping, but he stays awake, trying to formulate a plan with little information and the strange, burning sensation of a new drug suffusing his veins.

            The next weeks are slightly hellish, even for Sherlock, who has been known to spend weeks strung out on cocaine, or weeks infiltrating a drug den, half-coked up to ensure no one realizes what he’s doing there.  But that was before John.  That was before he’d become used to a haven of calm, the respite of whole hours spent without thinking.  It’s ironic how much of a weakness John is, but he is a weakness that Sherlock can ill afford to lose.  That Sherlock will not lose.

            They continue the daily injections; they leave him alone for long hours, lecture him on military strategy.  Military strategy is dull.  It’s either obvious or irrelevant, tedious and mind-numbing as the game of chess became when, at the age of four, he realized there were far more interesting things to be doing than staring at a meaningless checkerboard all day.

            He does take note of his changing physique; they are giving him (dull) exercises that he does only to relieve some of the monotony.  He’s going to go insane, stuck inside his skull, his brain desperate to get out, mouth racing ahead of him, spilling deductions whenever he can, but when he sees only the same people, day-in, day-out, the same boring, crimson-lit rooms, there are so few things to be deduced, an endless hamster-wheel that grinds on and on.

~

            “His behavior is becoming erratic.  This entire experiment is barbaric.”

            “Your opinion has been noted.”

            “I realize you believe I am biased, and your assumption is not entirely unfounded, but I am not blinded to the realities of the situation, and I believe this to be not only needlessly cruel, but also unwise.”

            “Yes, don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been setting yourself up to reclaim your former position, Mycroft.  Quite the thorn in my side.”

            “…Ah.  I take it this was your intention all along?  I might have saved myself the trouble of going along with you, then.  Clever.  I wouldn’t have expected something so unsophisticated.”

            “You’re too much a man of peace, Mycroft.  War needs other leaders.”

            “One of the many reasons I have spent my life opposing it.  Well, go ahead then.”

            He sounds almost long-suffering, as he rises and stands before the window.  The barrel of the gun is cold against the back of his neck for a moment before the window is dyed incarnadine, and the umbrella falls to the floor with a clatter.

~

            He sleeps, finally, after five days of constant wakefulness.  The hallucinations are beginning, now, and the sleep he falls into is heavy and loathsome with murky, disturbing dreams.  He wakes with a shout from visions of blood to the bloody lighting of the room on his hands, and he curses, shouts, beats at the walls with his bare hands.  The walls crack beneath the force of it, and he finds himself staring down at his fists.  Fascinating.

            Later that day, they let him out, let him interact with some of the other _subjects_ at the facility.  Not John, but he is so grateful for any distraction that he feels an unusual rush of liking for these people he would normally find utterly dull (and he recognizes this is exactly what they intended, but it’s getting more difficult to control his reactions; chemicals claw at his brain-stem and deny him his ability to detach).  He goes into a dizzying spin of deduction after deduction, his voice running lickety-split, but the people they introduce him to are patient, almost deferential (he hates them).

            After a few hours, he’s changed his mind; this is so much worse than solitude.  He feels raw and raked and empty, the chemicals clawing and fumbling at his brain and emotions, roiling sickly in his stomach, he wants them all to just _LEAVE ME ALONE_.

            And he doesn’t know how it happened, but he’s wrenched the fuse-box off the wall, in a spitting spin of sparks and flaring fire, gasps and murmurs echoing all around him, and he’s entirely ready to throw this in the face of the next person who comes near him, which he is able to say with a surprising amount of calm, because that cold core of calm is something he is still (barely) able to reach.

            “Sherlock, put it down right now.”

~

            What have they done to him?  The things they’ve been giving her make her feel listless and ill part of the time, but Molly isn’t going insane; she isn’t going to hulk out and kill somebody.  When they bring Sherlock into the recreational facilities for the first time, she can see there’s something very wrong.  He’s manic, too manic, case-level manic, even more than riding-crop manic, his hands beating a restless, ceaseless drumbeat against his thighs.  And he’s put on weight, muscle; it’s strange to see him looking almost fit.  There are careless needle-tracks in his arm, and his eyes are red.

            They try to keep him quiet.  They won’t let her near; Greg and Mrs. Hudson aren’t here, and they took John away shortly before they brought Sherlock in.  They’ve forgotten who she is again, she expects; people do.  She’s younger than Greg or Mrs. Hudson or John, and she’s small, and no one ever seems to notice that she’s there.  Sherlock doesn’t even seem to know she’s there, but that’s because he’s desperately looking for John.

            He’s getting more agitated; can’t they see that?  And then, suddenly, he’s moving fast, faster than she’s ever seen him move (and she didn’t think she’d ever see anything faster than Sherlock vaulting across a morgue table to tackle the person he’s just realized is the criminal), and the fuse box is spitting sparks and oh _god_ he’s going to throw it.

            The guards weren’t expecting this, and they don’t know what to do, and somebody’s going to get hurt.  She wishes John were here, but there’s only her, so she’ll have to do, and she runs (so fast, her legs move so quickly now, she used to have trouble running for long distances because her legs got wobbly but now she could run forever).

            “Sherlock, put it down right now.”  Her voice doesn’t shake in the least as she stares into his wide, grey eyes, the pupils pinpricks, the muscles in his arms barely shaking.  He looks at her for a long moment, completely blank, and then he sets it down.

            “Molly,” he says, with the same old graceful nod, his face reshaping into its normal harsh lines, and she smiles at him.

            “Bad day?”

            He tents his eyebrows upward into an off-center triangle.  “Slightly,” he concedes.  “I can see you’ve been taking good care of yourself.  You’ve put on a stone.”

            “Three quarters of a stone!” Molly says indignantly.  “And it’s muscle!”

            “My apologies for the imprecision.  I have a headache.”  He’s short, sharp, a little off; there’s still something in his eyes that she doesn’t know how to interpret, barely there, but some hint of—she doesn’t know what.  Things have been different between them since the affair of the Reichenbach Fall—you can only have a man as nosy as Sherlock spend so much time at your flat before you simply give up trying to hide things like the fact you’re on your period, or that you are having a night in with a tub of ice cream because you got stood up again, or that you’re stuffing tissue paper down the front of your dress for the cocktail party at work because that bint Annie made fun of you the last time.  It was probably sometime in there that she finally fell out of love with him, because she still thinks he’s gorgeous, and, actually, she likes him more than she did, but god, he’s _hell_ to live with.  Besides, it was obvious by then how ridiculously he was in love with John, and she’d never be able to compete with that (doesn’t want to, as a matter of fact), so she doesn’t.

            And she may not be his John, but she _is_ his friend, and she knows him well enough to know that there is something seriously wrong with Sherlock Holmes.

~

            “Doctor Stapleton, how is the stasis chamber coming?”

            “It should be operational in a day or two.”

            “Good.  It doesn’t take a genius to know that Holmes is smarter than I am, and I’d rather not take any chances.”

            “Ma’am?”

            “It’s a dirty business, Kristy, but someone’s got to do it.  I don’t believe all the security systems will be enough to keep the younger Holmes in check until the war unless we have a second safeguard.”

            “So you’re going to…”

            “Have the stasis chamber ready.”

~

            John hasn’t seen Sherlock in at least a month.  No, that’s not true.  He’s seen him—once—in profile, crossing in front of a window, flanked by guards.  His curls were shaved off, leaving only a dusting of close-cropped hair clinging to his scalp, and it made John’s heart ache inside to see that, and to see the way he walked.  He was ramrod straight, his hands tucked behind his back--too straight.  He used to walk with his head bent forward, as if his brain moved to quickly for his feet to keep up.

            John is tired and edgy, and he knows part of it is the injections they’ve been giving him; part of it is being stuck in this damn nearly-windowless compound; part of it is knowing that there’s a war looming and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

            When he’s summoned by Major Barrymore, he doesn’t think much of it, though he gives Molly a quick hug and tells her if she sees Sherlock to tell him he loves him, and she gives him that small, surprised smile of hers and says she will. 

            He’s not expecting the woman sitting behind Barrymore’s desk.  She’s probably in her mid fifties or early sixties, good health, very tired.  She gives him a smile as he walks in.  “Doctor Watson,” she says courteously.  “Please, sit.”

            He does.

            “My name is Violet Saunders, and I’m the head of the Baskerville Initiative.  I also occupy a minor position in the British Government.”

            John’s face must have changed when she says that, because she nods.  “Yes, like Mycroft Holmes,” she says steadily.  “Doctor Watson, are you a patriot?”

            John isn’t sure he likes where this is going.  “I fought,” he reminds her, “for Queen and Country.” 

            “Out of patriotism, a desire to fix up the soldiers you treated, or because you wanted to fight?” she asks.  “Don’t bother answering.  I think that at heart you’re a good person, doctor.  I’m not, in the least.  I’m not going to make any excuses for what we’ve done to you or your friends, though I will say I believe this is for the greater good.  You don’t have to agree,” she continues.  “I never wanted this war, but it’s coming, and what I do want is to win.  I think Britain can win, if we have a superhuman on our side.”

            “Why are you telling me this?” John asks.

            “Because you _do_ deserve an explanation.  I’m about to ask you to step into the next room with me, where Doctor Stapleton will put you into a cryogenic stasis chamber.”

            “ _What_?”

            “It’s the best way to control you, and you are the key to controlling Sherlock,” she says simply.  She gestures, and John follows her stupidly, because, well, what else can he do?  He’d try to protest, but it’s obvious that will do no good; he’d try to fight or run, but he’s in the center of the most heavily guarded compound in the British Isles.  So he follows her into the next room, and when she asks him to lie down in the cylindrical chamber, he does, with nothing but a feeling of faint despair.

            He wonders how much the world will have changed by the time they wake him up (if nothing goes wrong, that is).  It’s a bit surreal, and he has time to wonder if he might actually be dreaming.  The face of the world could change quite a bit in the next few years.

            He doesn’t suspect that he won’t be waking up for three hundred years.

~

            It’s like a fever.  Sherlock’s thoughts skitter and jump and race for purchase.  He can’t concentrate.  They’ve been having him watch videos, listen to lectures, a crash course in military strategy.  He listens because he’ll go insane from boredom if he doesn’t, but he knows this and the drugs are changing the shape of his thought-patterns.  It used to be only when he was angry that glancing at someone would reveal, not what they ate for breakfast, but the easiest way to debilitate them, but now, he burns with frosty anger all the time.

            He wants John.  He _needs_ John.  They’ve taken him.  He hasn’t seen John in days.  Longer than days.  Weeks.  It’s like a craving, a withdrawal—it _is_ a craving.  He needs John like he needs oxygen.  They had him spend a day in a tank, measuring his oxygen consumption.  Lower than a normal human’s, by now, but not that low, not zero, superhuman, not inhuman.  Shaking his head, racing thoughts again.

            Slipping out the door, easy enough to pick the lock, make his way down the hall, incapacitate the two guards (simple, kill them or not, doesn’t matter, they’re in his way), down the stairs, three doors to open, use the guard’s keycard to let himself out ( _about now the alarms start going off_ ), Molly and Greg are eating lunch, fetch them, bring the sixty-eight others (good cannon-fodder, _no, bit not good that_ , get them out as well, if they want to come), head up the stairs, ( _two-minutes-forty-three seconds_ ), into the office ( _two-minutes-forty-seven seconds_ ), snap Saunders’ neck ( _two-minutes-forty-nine seconds_ ), five seconds across the office, the blast doors shut, John’s gone, no way to get out, until the next-in-command arrives—

            Go back, don’t snap Saunders’ neck ( _two-minutes-fifty-two seconds)_ , too late ( _blast doors close at two-minutes-fifty seconds_ ).

            Go back, don’t get Molly and Greg and the sixty-eight others, not enough confusion, guards trigger the blast doors early—

            He stands in the cell with his fists clenched, running through scenario after scenario, but none of them ends with him and John, together, nothing he can do.  Nothing he can do, John, John, _John_ …

            The drugs are making him volatile.  He cannot stop the tears or the rough, choking sobs, but he turns his back on the hidden cameras he knows are scrutinizing him.

~

            Greg’s known this was coming for several weeks now.  The schedule of injections has been increased, John Watson is conspicuously absent, and Sherlock is more and more often sent to lead them in war games exercises.  It’s pretty obvious that the war’s approaching.

            They’re not supposed to refer to each other by name, according to Major Barrymore and the rest.  He thinks it’s all needless complication, but maybe the higher-ups know something they don’t (or maybe they’re all just have a fucking laugh over their beers, wouldn’t put it past them). 

            “Oy, Sherlock,” he yelled a few minutes ago, got a dirty look, rolled his eyes before he could get a lecture and changed it to, “Oy, Khan!”

            Who came up with these codenames?  They’re ridiculous.  He and Molly spent hours at dinner a few nights ago laughing over them.  He and Molly spend a lot of time together these days.  She’s a beautiful girl, and, honestly, he’s probably carrying a bit of a torch, but he’s much too old for her (grouchy old  inspector, marriage crumbled apart).

            Now Barrymore’s brought them all together for some kind of address.  Greg doesn’t have much patience for teambuilding and all that crap, not anymore; he’s much too old to team.  He always tries to avoid it when the higher-ups get it into their heads to hold one of those, but this time he can’t really avoid it.

            He doesn’t bother to listen to the speech that Barrymore’s giving, the introduction of Violet Saunders, the ‘mind behind the project’, etc, etc.  He zones out and watches Molly, who’s watching Sherlock.  She’s wearing her hair in plaits today, and it frames her face interestingly.  He smiles as she unconsciously leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, then blushes as she glances back and catches him watching.

            Molly blushes, looks away, looks back, and smiles as well.  Then she takes a very obvious deep breath (Greg awkwardly tries to avoid staring at her chest), and rests one hand gingerly on his.  He turns his hand palm upward and takes her hand loosely, and supposes he should give at least a little attention to the speech.  He’s feeling surprisingly fortified now.

            War’s been declared apparently.  That should probably feel worse than it does, but, as it is, it just feels like a grim hollowness.  They’ve all been expecting it for weeks.  They know they’re soldiers by now (even those of them who weren’t soldiers before), and Greg knows exactly where he’s going to be if they have to fight—behind Sherlock (Khan), in front of Molly (Hekim).

            Sherlock is staring into the distance, hands clenching and unclenching.  He’s put on a fair bit of weight—all of it obviously muscle—and his hair has grown out, but the wild curls are slicked down, damped, and though he’s vibrating with energy, that sense of strange containment is what Greg feels radiating from him the most strongly right now.

~

            _Savagery_.  That’s what they’ve been trying to evoke.  Sherlock has always been civilized.  The way he and Mycroft were raised—tea and toast and Mummy—has ensured that.  Certainly he has seen the dark underbelly of London; he has run and fought beside John.  He has seen savagery, and he has fought it, because of how he was raised, because of who he is, because of John.

            But he doesn’t have John anymore, and the cold core inside himself seems to have changed.  It’s still cold, but there is hot desperation and fury mixed in, and he is burning.

            They’ve sent him to lead their little army to battle, to do what they can’t, because they’re not smart enough or savage enough themselves, because Britain hasn’t been _savage_ in hundreds of years.  They have scorned it, all through their own imperial conquest, and now that the world is collapsing into darkness, they want their savagery back. 

            He and seventy-one other soldiers crouch in ambush.  They’ve done so many war games now that they move like a concerted machine, and he’s the head.  The master program, as it were.  Mind’s ticking overtime again, analyzing the size of the platoon of soldiers he can hear approaching them.  Not too large, but an advance group, probably scouting.  They move silently and quickly, but not as silently and quickly as Sherlock and his army.

            They must all be killed, efficiently, silently.  Close-quarters, then; no use using even silenced guns.  He sends the order over his headpiece, murmured, sharp, hears the expected little muffled gasp from Molly (too soft, too kind, they’d never have chosen her if it hadn’t been for him, and he wishes she didn’t have to be here, wishes they’d sewn her up in a coffin with John), and then he leads them forward.

            The nearest soldier doesn’t even see him.  Hand on the jaw, hand on the back of the head, twist, wrench, snap, drop.  Simple.  It’s not until later, when they’ve taken the encampment, that he realizes he has never before killed someone with his bare hands.

~

            Alarms blaring, klaxons shrieking.  Attacked in the night.  They’ve been retreating, too long, he’s made mistakes (too many, too tired, strange to think of making mistakes because you’re tired)—or perhaps not, perhaps it’s just the different between seventy-two soldiers and seventy-two thousand.  Seventy-two supermen, but even supermen have their limits.  They were winning for a while, but not for long enough, primarily because Violet Saunders underestimated the virulence of the hatred the other countries would have for these supermen of hers.

            He could have told her, but she never asked him.  They are too powerful and too inhuman, and now, amusingly, it’s they who are the war criminals, not Saunders, not Barrymore (holed up in the lab, still controlling him, still the blast doors separating him from the person he cares about most in the world).

            He knows it’s the end.  He ought to surrender, but he’s afraid for John, afraid that Saunders will kill him if he shows that kind of weakness, so he takes a gun and wades into the fight.  He’ll show them _savage_.

            He kills and kills and kills, hands and gun interchangeable, both part of the machine that he has become, but no matter how many he kills—bullet to the brain, close-range shot, disable the soldier behind as well, open-palm attack, bone-shards driven into the brain, death instantaneous, shoot and punch and kick, bones breaking and blood spattering and brains shutting off—there are more.  He is driven back, his army—his _family_ —overwhelmed and submerged in an ocean of enemies.

            Too late, nothing left to fight for, he’s beaten back into Saunder’s office.  She is crouching, wide-eyed beneath the desk, and he’s going to die, he’s going to lose John, and he’s going to die (they’re all going to die), and it’s all because of her.  He drags her out from beneath the desk, and she opens her mouth, trying to order him, to order _him_.  She may have made him what he is, but what he is now is so far superior to what she is or could ever be.

            “You took John away from me,” he tells her, and one hand closes around her throat as he raises her above the desk.  She kicks feebly and chokes and tries to say something.  Two hammer-blows strike his upper-shoulder and his back, to the right of his spine, as the door behind him begins to splinter beneath the hail of gunfire.  He raises Violet Saunders above the desk and watches her eyes widen in fear, which makes him smile (a cold smile, cold and eager), and then he smashes her down against the desk, the force of the blow sufficient that the back of her skull splits open.  He watches the blood and fluid leak out around her mangled, pulpy head before he turns and watches as the door explodes inward.

            Not even a superman will be able to survive a hail of gunfire, and he dimly wonders as the bullets begin to thud into him, taking his breath away, if there is even the remotest chance of his ever seeing John again.

~

            Carol can’t sleep.  Mommy is away for the night, and Daddy is in his study again.  She goes to find Daddy, but first she is careful to pick up Khan, her stuffed bunny, because she knows he can protect her from anything (Daddy said so).  She stands outside Daddy’s study in her fuzzy tribble slippers and knocks on the door and calls his name.

            “Carol, sweetheart, what is it?” Daddy asks as he opens the door.  Daddy is so tall; he is a great black shadow with the lights behind him.

            “Daddy, I can’t sleep,” Carol says.  “I had nightmares again.”

            “Oh, baby,” he says, and he picks her up and carries her back to her bedroom.  “It’s going to be okay.  What kind of nightmares?”

            “There was a mean klingon and he was chasing me,” she says.  “He had a big sword.”

            “Don’t be scared of klingons, pet,” Daddy tells her.  “That’s why we got you Khan, remember?”

            “Tell me about Khan again,” she begs, because it is her favorite story. 

            “Will you go to sleep if I tell you?” Daddy asks, and Carol nods.

            “All right, then.”  Daddy takes Khan and Carol and sets them both in his lap.  “Once, a long time ago, the world was in a lot of trouble.  There were bad people who wanted to tear it apart—“

            “Were they klingons?” Carol asks

            “No, sweetie,” Dad says.  “But they were like klingons.  They wanted to have wars, and the good people, who didn’t want to have wars, were too weak to stand up to them, so they didn’t know what to do.  Then Khan came.”

            “Khan Noon-ee-an Sing!” says Carol.  She loves how the syllables roll across her tongue.  Just the words make her feel braver somehow.

            “That’s right,” says Daddy.  “His name was Khan Noonien Singh, and he was a great man.  He was stronger than anyone else in the world, and smarter, too.  He came and he made them stop fighting for a long time, and he had lots and lots of adventures, but finally, he made the world peaceful, and then he had to go to sleep, because the world didn’t need him anymore.  But if the world ever does, he will come back.”

            “Aw, Daddy, that was the short version,” Carol complains.

            “I know, button, that’s because it’s late.  Go to sleep and I’ll tell you some of his adventures tomorrow, okay?”

            “Okay,” Carol grumbles.  She didn’t really expect to get Daddy to tell the adventures, but she’d been hoping.  She really does feel better now, though, because if the klingons come, Khan will wake up and he’ll stop them.  He’ll make them go away.

            Daddy kisses her and turns off the light, and Carol falls asleep clutching her bunny Khan.

~

            Kirk opened his eyes with a gasp as Spock gently took his hand away.

            “Is that everything?” he asked, and Spock shook his head.

            “No, Captain, that is not all the evidence.  I have also been collecting the crew’s impressions of the events beginning with the bombing of the archive, as well as Khan’s own.  However, Doctor McCoy stipulated that you were not receive the more recent memories until you are fully recovered.”

            Kirk gave Spock a disgusted look.  “Come on, Spock, I want to know.”

            “I am aware, Captain.  But I do not wish to risk either your health or the good doctor’s wrath, which, as you may know, can be formidable.”

            Kirk lay back in the hospital bed.  Much as he didn’t want to admit it, Bones probably had a point.  The wash of memories from the mind-meld had left him feeling weak and worn out.  “Did you really have to get all this yourself?  Couldn’t you have asked someone to help you out?”

            “I was the only Vulcan easily within range,” Spock pointed out.

            “You could have waited.”

            “I wanted to see this,” Spock said.  “I could not tell you why, Captain.  Call it curiosity, if you will.  You yourself certainly did not need to view these memories.”

            “I guess not,” Kirk agreed, with a sigh.  “I just wanted to know how much of the truth he was telling.  I just wanted to—understand.”

            “As did I.  I will be able to share these memories directly with any of the people Starfleet appoints to decide Khan’s fate, after all.”

            Kirk shook his head.  “What do you think they’ll do?” he asked.

            “I strongly suspect that it will be possible to engineer a reversal of the effect of the drugs that were used on him and on the others.  And, of course, Starfleet believes in rehabilitation over punishment, as a general rule, but as I am not one of those who will be deciding, I could not tell you.  There are emotional aspects to such a decision which I am not qualified to comment on.”

            Kirk gave Spock a wry smile; then took his hand.  “I hate him,” he said fiercely.  “What he did to Captain Pike—to us—I _hate_ him.”  He laughed ruefully.  “Of course now I hate the people who did this to him as well.  How is everyone?”

            “Most of the crew is well.  You are the last one to recover, as you are the only one who, in fact, died.”

            “I wish Bones would let me get up.  I feel fine.”

            “Yeah, well, you’re not,” said McCoy, poking his head into the room.  “Visitor’s hours are over, Spock.  Are you done filling my patient’s head full of those nasty memories?”

            “I am, Doctor.”

            “Good.  If he has nightmares, you’re the one I’m blaming.”

            “That does seem fair,” Spock said mildly.  “I expect he will be sleeping soundly any moment.  That was the purpose of the final memory I shared.”

            “You _cheater_!” Kirk was outraged, but he was already beginning to feel sleepy, just as Spock said.

            “You tricky pointy-eared bastard,” McCoy said approvingly.  “Don’t worry, Jim, you’ll be out of bed in less than a week if you do exactly what your doctor says.”

            Kirk sighed theatrically.  “I don’t suppose you could at least find me a beautiful girl to share the bed?”

            “Nope.  No beautiful girls for you until you’re all better.  Now go to sleep, you big baby.”

            “Baby!  I died!”

            “Which is why I’m telling you to shut your pie-hole and start snoozing.”

            Kirk bowed to the inevitable and shut his eyes.  He felt Spock touch his head lightly before he left, and he smiled.  His crew was safe.  His ship was repaired.  He’d be back on board her soon enough.

~

            It took Carol two hours to get into the restricted area where they were holding Khan and his crew, all of whom had been revived by now.  She had to go through seven different body scans, sign two waivers, and give a vial of blood.  She wasn’t entirely sure whether the security was intended to keep her safe, to stop her from trying to help Khan escape, or to stop her from trying to kill him, but eventually, she was allowed into a softly-lit corridor lined with doors and told a guard would accompany her to the correct one.

            “Two-twenty one?” she asked as they paused.

            The guard nodded.  “Doctor Watson requested it.  Said it might help Khan.”

            “I wonder why,” Carol said softly, more to herself than to anyone else; then she raised a hand and pressed the door chime.           

            The man who answered the door was quite short, with a tired, lined face and fair, greying hair.  “Hi,” he said.  “I know you said you wanted to see Sherlock, but he’s a little bit, um, he’s not feeling very well right now.”

            “I just want to give him something,” Carol said.  “If that’s okay.”

            “I’ll check,” replied the man.  “I’m John Watson, by the way.”

            “Carol Marcus.”

            As soon as he heard her last name, Watson’s face hardened.  “Oh,” he said, standing up a little straighter.  “I’m not sure he’ll want to see you.”

            “I know you’re—protective of him,” Carol said, carefully choosing a neutral term.  “But I didn’t know anything about what my father did.  I really do just want to give him something.”

            Watson looked her up and down again, then nodded.  “All right, I’ll ask,” he said and disappeared inside, letting the door slide shut again.  It was interesting, Carol thought, all of those people trying to keep Khan out of the world, but this one short man knew that what was most important was keeping the world away from Khan.

            The door opened again.  “All right, you can see him,” Watson said.  “C’mon in.”

            She was let into a small, grey room, furnished sparsely but elegantly.  There was a window looking out onto the city along one wall, and Khan was seated on the bed next to it.  “Doctor Marcus,” he said, not glancing up.  “I trust your knee is better?”

            She flinched a little at the bald statement.  “It’s better, thanks,” she said, then paused, wondering how to form the words that she wanted to say.

            “John said you had something to give me?”

            She took a deep breath, ignored her strange, roiling feels about this man, and stepped forward.  “Yes.  You see, when I was younger, my father used to tell me stories about you.”

            “Fascinating,” drawled Khan.  “Childs’ fantasies.  Did you grow up to be in love with the picture your father painted of the heroic man who would save your world, is that what this is about?”

            She let the harsh words wash over her.  “No,” she said.  “I didn’t think about you after I grew up, really.  I just thought that you should have this.”  She fished in her purse and pulled out the battered bunny rabbit and handed it to him.  “His name is Khan.”

            The man in front of her took a deep breath, then nodded slightly, and she backed out of the room, giving Doctor Watson the chance to crowd in beside Khan.  As the door slid shut, she saw him take Khan’s shoulders, inexpressibly gently, and Khan leaned against him, with a great, shuddering sigh, her childhood toy trapped between them.


End file.
